


5 Times Acheron Tried to Jerk Off and 1 Time Metodey Made Sure He Actually Did

by purple_bookcover



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: FE3H Wank Week, Humiliation, Knife Play, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Repression, Shame, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25753057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_bookcover/pseuds/purple_bookcover
Summary: Acheron just wants to jerk off before he dies, or because he doesn't die, or out of pure spite. But it never quite works out...Until Metodey helps.
Relationships: Acheron/Metodey (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Wank Week 2020





	5 Times Acheron Tried to Jerk Off and 1 Time Metodey Made Sure He Actually Did

**Author's Note:**

> For Wank Week. Prompt: Defilement. 
> 
> Honestly, nothing about this except for the fact that it's Metacheron actually fits the prompt, but what the hell else prompt do you use for these horrible rat men?

**1\. At Lorenz Hellman Gloucester’s birthday party**

It was meant to be a hate wank, in all honesty. Watching half the Alliance grovel while the crested Gloucester boy celebrated his last birthday as a child in his father’s home stirred something dark in Acheron’s belly.

He therefore retreated to a large pantry, unlaced his breeches and took himself in hand.

Sadly, bitterness alone made for a poor aphrodisiac.

**2\. On the day he got the news**

It arrived via messenger. Poor man, the information he carried was simply too valuable and too dangerous. Acheron had no choice but to order him hanged the moment after he announced that Edelgard meant to go through with her plot, that everything was in place.

Naturally, she requested a response, but he dared not give it. Acheron would wait before making any definitive moves. Best to be sure the girl could actually achieve her lofty goals before he put his own neck on the chopping block.

All the talk of war was quite exciting. Unfortunately, the messenger hanging in the courtyard put a damper on Acheron’s spirits. Stroke as he might, he remained as limp as the body swinging in the courtyard.

**3\. When the war started**

Garreg Mach was burning.

None of Acheron’s concern, of course, except in that it meant the messenger was right. And that Edelgard was winning.

He knew Garreg Mach was burning because of the man who arrived to inform him. No mere messenger this time. A pity, as this meant Acheron could not kill him when he asked for a pledge of Acheron’s continued loyalty to the cause.

Acheron distinctly disliked the glint in the man’s amber eyes as he awaited a reply. Something about the man oozed, as though he was some half-dreamed miasma that had bubbled up out of a sewer.

Yet for all that, Acheron could not say he was not comely. Tight assassin’s leathers revealed a well-honed body. Despite the odd streak in his hair, the rest of him was neat, perhaps even tidy.

“Who did you say you were?” Acheron said.

The man dipped into a little bow. Acheron was not sure if it was sincere or mocking. “Metodey, m’lord.”

Well, at least the little weasel had manners.

Acheron supplied an answer that seemed to satisfy Metodey. Why should it not? It was the only answer Acheron could give without getting a knife in his belly. This Metodey would kill him without a thought. That much was abundantly clear.

Why, then, was Acheron still thinking of that blood curdling smirk as he lay in bed that night? Why did it threaten to make him hard?

He refused to entertain such a repulsive notion and went to sleep aching.

**4\. Before the Bridge of Mryddin**

If he was going to die anyway, he might as well get off first.

He fantasized about an unlikely victory, about Lorenz’s despair as Acheron crushed him and the rest of Claude’s army, about corpses strewn about the bridge and him standing above all of them. 

Then a lieutenant barged in to say his horse had a bad shoe and did he mind switching to Apple, who was a bit of a biter but otherwise well-behaved and it had been all Acheron could do merely not to soil himself. 

After that, the mood turned … inhospitable. 

**5\. After somehow surviving**

He didn’t die on that gods damned bridge. Somehow. 

Even so, his retreat cost him most of his men, as well as Apple the horse. He rode away on a different horse, stolen from a dead man, if one could still consider it stealing. 

Acheron had no destination in mind outside of simple survival. He couldn’t go back to his home. Surely, they would be headed there, looking for him, hoping to finish the job they’d started at Myrddin. Nor could he flee to Edelgard, whom he’d obviously just failed. 

So Acheron rode to nowhere, disappearing into dense thickets. He ditched the horse somewhere along the way and continued on foot, pushing through tangled foliage, hoping it was enough to conceal him.

When he finally grew too weary to continue, he lay among the brush, miserable and alone. Again, that thought crept in. _If I’m going to die anyway..._

He reached into his pants, took himself in hand, tried to imagine a scenario that was the opposite of his current reality. 

It didn’t work. 

When he heard mocking laughter, he startled, jerking his hand out of his pants. A man stood over him, his eyes glinting like poison.

“Oh, little lordling, do you really think now is the time for that?” Metodey said. 

Then he reached down, yanked Acheron to his feet and dragged him away.

#

The entire way to the Empire, Acheron was convinced he was about to die.

Perhaps Metodey would simply cut his throat in the middle of the night. Perhaps Metodey would poison his food (he certainly had enough clinking bottles full of mysterious and foul fluids to do the job). Perhaps they would simply be caught by Claude or the Church or one of those stray Lions still prowling about the continent. 

It was a deeply unsexy experience. 

Acheron was therefore more than a little startled when Metodey looked at him from across their campfire and said, “How long have you been that pent up?”

“Excuse me?” Acheron tugged at his mustache, instantly irritated and on guard.

Metodey’s smile was as sharp as the blade he’d used to butcher their meal. “Don’t think I don’t notice. You’re hard every morning. You whine in your sleep. Go on. Touch yourself. I don’t care.”

“E-e-excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Metodey said. “Go on. Do it.”

“I-I mostly c-certainly shall not!” 

“Oh, dainty little lordling’s hands are too soft to stroke himself off, hm?”

“I’ll have you know--”

Acheron cut himself off, face flushing as he realized what he’d nearly said.

Metodey raised an eyebrow and rose, stepping around the fire and crouching before Acheron, who sat on a stump. Metodey placed his knife under Acheron’s chin, tilting his head up so Acheron had no choice but to look into those poisonous amber eyes. 

“You’d have me know what?” Metodey said, far too close. 

“N-nothing. It was nothing.”

“Oh, I think it was something, little lordling. Go on and tell me, won’t you please?”

He asked so politely, but that knife was still there at Acheron’s throat.

“I just meant to say that I am perfectly capable of … you know … _that_ ,” Acheron said. “If I truly desired it.”

“You do desire it,” Metodey said. “So why don’t you just do it?”

“It would be indecent!”

Metodey laughed, loud and unabashed. “Indecent for whom? Certainly you don’t mean me. I assure you, my sensibilities are far from delicate.”

Acheron had little trouble believing that, especially with a blade at his neck. Still, he wasn’t exactly eager to confirm Metodey’s theory.

“What if I helped a little?”

Before Acheron could protest, Metodey’s knife left his neck, tracing right over his crotch instead. Even through layers of mage’s robes, it was deeply unsettling to have a knife pointed right at his cock. Acheron was sure Metodey could stab downward before Acheron even saw it happen.

Why was that making him hard?

Metodey’s eyes flickered down. It was as though he could see right through the layers of fabric. His smile curled like smoke. 

“For all your protesting, you like it,” Metodey said. 

“I...” 

Acheron was only getting harder the longer this went on. Metodey was so very close, leaning in. Acheron could feel the heat of his body, could smell the blood on his breath. As much as he tried to think of absolutely anything else, his body went on responding despite him. 

Metodey put a little pressure behind the knife, just enough that Acheron could feel it through his clothes, and a pathetic moan escaped Acheron’s throat.

“Go on,” Metodey said, hot breath puffing against Acheron’s ear. “Reach in there. Touch it.” 

Acheron’s hand quivered as he obeyed, weaseling under layers of fabric, plucking at the laces of his pants, shuffling through undergarments until he finally had himself in hand. Goddess, he was hard already. He thumbed the wetness off the head of his cock, smearing it down himself. 

“That’s right,” Metodey purred. “Just like that.” 

Metodey moaned in his ear, like Acheron was stroking the assassin and not himself. That was a disturbingly pleasant thought, one that set Acheron’s hand working harder and faster. 

“How do you like it, lordling?” Metodey said. “Show me.” 

Acheron wasn’t sure what Metodey could see from so close. He was nuzzling at Acheron’s neck, tongue flicking out like a snake’s, nose drawing patterns along the gooseflesh at Acheron’s throat. 

Acheron squeezed himself. It worked. It always worked. He knew just the amount of pressure to apply, the way the tightness would shiver through him and wind in his belly, making his whole body clench. 

Metodey bit him. 

Hard.

Acheron yelped. His hand tightened far more than it usually would. A groan followed the exclamation.

“That’s good isn’t it?” Metodey said. “You’re welcome.”

Acheron started pumping up and down, an urgent need filling him to the very brim. He squeezed his eyes shut, jerking frantically. The humiliation of knowing Metodey was watching his face screw up with pleasure somehow only made his whole body burn hotter. It should have put him off, but that heat was like fire coursing through his veins, replacing his blood with molten heat. 

Metodey grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head back, placing the knife against his throat. He was hunching over Acheron, straddling his hips but not touching him anywhere but his hair. 

Acheron whined, high and pleading. Metodey pressed the knife closer. 

“You like when I have you like this,” Metodey said. “You love knowing I could open you from ear to ear any second. You like when it hurts a little, hm?” 

Acheron tried to nod. Tears sprang to the corners of his eyes, pleasure and fear both. He was so close, his cock aching in his grip, his hand moving as fast as it could. 

Metodey tightened his grip and leaned so close his lips were against Acheron’s ear. “You can come now.” 

He did. 

Goddess, he did. 

It spilled over his hand, splattered onto his clothing, sputtered out in fits and starts until Acheron was utterly drained. 

He was shaking when it finally passed, his body quivering like it had been depleted of every last drop. 

When Metodey released him, he slumped over onto the ground, still panting for breath.

“Tsk,” Metodey said. “Now I need to clean this shirt. You are truly an annoyance, lordling. I don’t know why she said I can’t kill you. Perhaps someday though, eh?”

That should have been terrifying, especially in the state Acheron found himself in now. It should have made him quake with fear, should have had him plotting a dozen different escapes. 

It didn’t.

Something in Acheron stirred, despite his exhaustion. Something dangerous. Something warm. Something that told him his time with Metodey would be very long indeed. 

And very interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


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